Dorchester was at this period the most important city of the Midland counties, for it was the seat of the great bishopric which extended its sway over nearly the whole of Mercia.

Here the apostle of Wessex, Birinus, had converted and baptized Cynegils, king of that country, Oswald, the saintly king of Northumbria, being present, and receiving him fresh from the regenerating waters as his adopted son. Here, the next year, Cuichelm, his brother, was baptized, and from this centre Christianity was widely diffused. The good bishop died in the year 650, and was buried amongst the people he loved, but many years later his relics were translated to Winchester. But the tale went forth that the cunning canons of Dorchester had given them another body than that of the saint, and their shrine was the object of veneration equally with the rival shrine at Winchester.

Dorchester became successively the seat of two great bishoprics-the one West Saxon, the other Mercian. The first, founded by Birinus, when Wessex extended far north of the Thames, was divided seventy years later into two sees-Winchester and Sherburne. For some years the city was without bishops, owing to its insecure position during the strife between Wessex and Mercia, but later it appears as the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, retaining its jurisdiction until after the Norman conquest, when the see was transferred to Lincoln. Therefore Dorchester long enjoyed a wide celebrity and greater influence, than the city, Oxenford, which, lying at a distance of ten miles, was destined to supersede it eventually.

The day was closing on an evening of November 1006, and the sun was sinking across the level country beyond the walls, when the people of Dorchester might have been seen crowding the roads which led from the eastern gate towards Bensington and Wallingford; the wooden bridge by which the road crossed the Tame was covered with human beings, and every eye was eagerly directed along the great high road. The huge cathedral church towered above the masses, rude in architecture, yet still impressive in its proportions, while another church, scarcely smaller in its dimensions, rose from the banks lower down the stream, below the bridge, and the wooden steeple of a third was visible above the roofs of the houses in the western part of the city.

But, as in every other city which had once been Roman, the relics of departed greatness contrasted painfully (at least we should think so) with the humbler architecture around. The majesty of the churches was indeed (as a contemporary wrote) great, but thatched roofs consorted ill with the remains of shattered column and pedestal, and with the fragmentary ruins of the grand amphitheatre, which were yet partly visible, although the stones which had been brought from Bath to build it had been employed largely in church architecture.

The light of day was rapidly fading; a light breeze brought down the remaining leaves from the trees, or whirled them about in all directions; winter was plainly about to assume the mastery of the scene, as was evident from the clothing the people wore, the thick fur and warm woollen cloaks which covered their light tunics.

At length the sound of approaching cavalry was heard, and the cry “The King! the King!” was raised, and cheers were given by the multitude. It was observable, almost at a glance, that they proceeded from the young and giddy, and that their elders refrained from joining in the cry.

About a hundred horsemen, gaily caparisoned, appeared, and in the midst, with equal numbers of his guard preceding and following, rode Ethelred the king. He was of middle stature and not uncomely, but there was a look of vacillation about his face, which would have struck even an indifferent physiognomist, while his thin lips, which he was constantly biting (when he was not biting his nails), seemed to indicate a tendency towards cruelty.

But by his side rode one, whose restless eyes seemed to wander to each individual of the crowd in turn, while power and malice seemed equally conspicuous in his glance. Little changed since we last beheld him rode the traitor, for so all but the king accounted him, Edric Streorn.

Amidst the shouts of the populace, who loved to look on the display, the Bishop Ednoth {xi} and the chief magistrates of the city received the monarch and his councillor in front of the church of Sts. Peter and Paul, and escorted him through the streets to the palace, which stood in what was then a central position, on the spot now called Bishop’s Court. It was spacious, built around a quadrangular courtyard, with cloisters surrounding the lowest storey and the smooth shaven lawn, in the centre of which a granite cross was upraised. A gateway opened in the southern side and led to the inner court, and the cloisters opened from either side upon it.

On the opposite side of the quadrangle was the great hall where synods were held, and where, on state occasions, such as a royal visit, the banquet was prepared.

Here, after the king had availed himself of the bath, and his attendants had divested themselves of their travel-stained attire, the throne of the king was placed at the head of the board, and a seat for the bishop on his right hand, and for Edric on his left.

Ethelred took his place; upon his head a thin circlet of gold confined his flowing locks already becoming scant, but, as their natural colour was light, not otherwise showing signs of age: he was only in his fortieth year. His tunic was finely embroidered in colours around the neck, and was below of spotless white, secured by a belt richly gilded, whereon was a sheath for the dagger or knife, which was used for all occasions, whether in battle or in meal time, the haft being inlaid with precious stones. Over the tunic a rich purple mantle was lightly thrown, and his slippers were of dark cloth, relieved by white wool; the tunic descended to his heels.

The attire of Edric was similar in shape, but of different colour; his tunic was of green, edged with brown fur, his mantle of dark cloth, and his belt of embossed leather. There was a studied humility in it all, as if he shunned all comparison with the king.

Ednoth said grace, and the chanters responded. The canons of the cathedral, the priests of the other churches, the sheriff of the county, the reeve of the borough, the burgesses, all had their places, and the banquet began; huge joints being carried round to each individual, from which, with his dagger, he cut what he fancied and deposited it on his plate; then wine, ale, and mead were poured foaming into metal tankards, and lighter delicacies followed. There was no delay; no one cared to talk until he had satisfied his appetite.

The king, as a matter of course, opened the conversation, when the edge of desire was gone.

“Have the levies who served in the war all been disbanded, Sheriff?”

“The last returned from the garrisons in Sussex a week ago, and are all hoping for a quiet winter in the bosom of their families.”

“Have they lost many of their number? Did the people of this hundred suffer greatly in the war which Sweyn forced upon us?”

“Not very many; still there has been a little mourning, and much anticipation of future evil,” replied the bishop.

“That is needless,” said Edric; “they may all prepare to keep their Christmas with good cheer. The Danes are sleeping, hibernating like bears in their winter caves.”

“While they are so near as the Wight, who can rest in peace?” said Ednoth.

“The Wight! it must be a hundred miles from here; the Danes have never reached any spot so far from the coast as this.”

“Yet there is an uneasy belief that they will attack the inland districts now that they have exhausted the districts on the coast, and that we must be prepared to suffer as our brethren have done.”

“Before they leave their retreat again we shall be ready to meet them; our levies will be better trained and more numerous.”

“A curse seemed upon all our exertions this last year,” said Ednoth, sorrowfully. “We were defending our hearths and our homes, yet we were everywhere outmanoeuvred and beaten. It could not have been worse had we had spies and traitors in command.”

The king slightly coloured, for he resented all imputations on his favourite, and was about to make a sharp reply, when a voice which made him start, replied:

“Quite right, reverend father! as you say, success was impossible while spies and traitors commanded our forces.”

All looked up in amazement; two guests had entered unbidden, and the king, the bishop, and Edric recognised Prince Edmund.

“The unseemly interruption is a sufficient introduction to the company. I need not, my friends, present to you my turbulent son Edmund, or the attendant he has picked up.”

“No need whatsoever, if you will first allow us to explain the reasons of our presence here. We have somewhat startling news from the enemy.”

“The enemy, by my last advices, lies quiet in the Isle of Wight,” said Edric.

“I will not dispute your knowledge, my lord Edric,” replied the Prince, “considering the intimacy you stand on with Sweyn.”

“Intimacy! I would sooner own intimacy with the Evil One.”

“You might own that, too, without much exaggeration, since the good bishop will bear me witness that he is the father of lies.”

“Edmund, this is unbearable,” said the king.

“Pardon, my father and liege, but truth will out.”

The company sat in amazement, while the hand of Edric played convulsively with the hilt of his dagger; meanwhile Edmund ate, and gave to Alfgar, ere he spake again.

“Stay, Edric,” whispered the king; “thou art my Edric. I was never false to thee, nor will I be now; did I not, for thy sake, look over the death of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, and put out the eyes of his sons? canst thou not trust me now?”

Thus strengthened, Edric remained, and uneasy whispers passed around the assembly.

At last Edmund looked up.

“When the flesh is weak through toil and fasting, speech is not eloquent, but now listen, all Englishmen true, and I will speak out.”

He told his tale, how he had conceived suspicions that the Danes intended a winter descent; how he had risked his life (in the exuberance of youthful daring) to ascertain the truth; how, trusting to his knowledge of Carisbrooke, wherein he had spent many pleasant days in his boyhood, he had ventured amongst the Danes as a gleeman, in imitation of Alfred of old; how there he had assisted, unsuspected, at a meeting of the council in the great hall, and heard it decided to invade England, and finally how he had escaped. And then he continued:

“And in that council I heard that the Danes had a secret friend in the English army, who ever gave them due warning of our movements, and who caused all the miscarriage of our last campaign. Stand forth, Edric Streorn, for thou art the man, and my sword shall prove it, if need be.”

“Edmund, thou ravest,” cried the king; “produce thy witnesses.”

“Alfgar, son of Anlaf, answer; whom didst thou espy talking with Sweyn?”

“Edric Streorn.”

“How didst know him?”

“Because he threatened my life on St. Brice’s night, and I had often seen him while dwelling in Mercia.”

“A Dane witnessing against a free-born Englishman? Can it be endured?” cried Ethelred. “What, here, my royal guard!-here! here! your King is insulted-insulted, and by his son and his son’s minions.”

The guard rushed in, their weapons in their hands.

“Seize my son, the false Edmund.”

“Here I am,” quietly said the hero of the English army, for such he was, although not recognised as such by the government of his father. “Here I am; what Englishman will bind me?”

The men stood as if paralysed.

“Will you not obey?” shouted the weak Ethelred, and stamped in impotent anger on the floor.

But they would not-they could not touch Edmund.

Edric whispered in the king’s ear.

“I was wrong,” said the king; “retire, guards.

“Edmund, come with me; tell me what you have seen. I will hear you, and judge between you and my Edric-judge fairly.”

“Wait till my return, Alfgar.”

Alfgar waited. No one spoke to him; all the company seemed utterly bewildered, as well they might be until, after the expiration of an hour, during which time Ednoth had left the hall, and the company broke up by degrees, an officer of the court came and whispered in his ear that Edmund awaited him without the gates.

He left the table at once, and proceeded beyond the precincts of the palace, following his guide.

“Where is the prince?”

“He has had a stormy interview with his father, and has just left him, refusing to lodge in the palace, to sleep without the precincts. I am to conduct you thither.”

Leaving the palace, they were passing through some thick shrubbery, when all at once two strong men sprang upon Alfgar. At the same moment his attendant turned round and assisted his foes. He struggled, but he was easily overpowered, when his captors led him away, until, passing a postern gate in the western wall of the town, they crossed an embankment, and came upon the river. There they placed him on board a small boat, and rowed rapidly down the stream.

In the space of a few minutes they ran the boat ashore in the midst of dense woods which fringed the farther bank, and there they forced him to land, and led him upwards until, deep in the woods, they came upon an old timbered house. They knocked at the door, which was speedily opened by a man of gigantic stature and ruffianly countenance, by whose side snarled a mastiff as repulsive as he.

“Here, Higbald, we have brought thee a prisoner from our lord.”

The wretch looked upon Alfgar with the eyes of an ogre bent on devouring a captive, and then said:

“The chamber where blind Cuthred was slaughtered looks out on the woods behind where no one passes, and it is strong; it will be better for you to take him there.”

And he drew aside to let them pass.

“Here, Wolf” said the uncouth gaoler, “smell him, and see you have to guard him.”

The dog seemed to comprehend. He smelt around the prisoner, then displayed his huge fangs, and growled, as if to tell Alfgar what his fate would be if he tried to escape.

The poor lad turned to his captors who had brought him there, for they seemed more humane than his new gaoler.

“For pity’s sake, tell me why I am brought here-what crime I have committed.”

No reply.

“At least bear a message to one who will think I have deserted him in his need.”

Again they were silent.

They had ascended a rough staircase. At the summit a passage led past two or three doors to one made of the strongest plank, and strengthened with iron.

They opened it, thrust him in, showed him, by the light of their torches, a bed of straw in the corner.

“There you can lie and sleep as peacefully as at Carisbrooke,” said one of his guards.

“And let me tell you,” added Higbald, “that it will be certain death to try to get away; for if you could escape me, my dog Wolf, who prowls about by day and night, would tear you in pieces before any one could help you. He has killed half-a-dozen men in his day.”

Like a poor wounded deer which retires to his thicket to die, Alfgar threw himself down upon the bed of straw. His reflections were very, very bitter.

“What would Edmund think of him?”

“He will know I am faithful. He will not think that the lad whose life he saved has deserted him. He will search till he find me even here.”

Thus in alternate hope and despair he sank at last to sleep-nature had its way-even as the criminal has slept on the rack.